


The Fragile Line of Compromise

by fallbeforeifly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, M/M, Psychological Torture, Suspenseful situations, The heavily implied Alastair/Dean Winchester is relatively non-consensual, Torture heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:22:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28572966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallbeforeifly/pseuds/fallbeforeifly
Summary: Alastair offers a compromise. It isn't pretty. Set mid season 4
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Heavily implied Alastair/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	The Fragile Line of Compromise

Sulfur is the first thing Dean smells when he wakes up, and it immediately puts him on edge. His brain starts troubleshooting before he opens his eyes: he’s upright, feet on the floor and arms on the arms of a chair. Wood. Not tied down though. Weaponless, but he still has his lockpicks, and if push comes to shove, he could-

“I know you’re awake, Dean.”

That singsong voice, the voice from his nightmares, has his eyes open in an instant, chills prickling up and down his spine.

“Alastair.”

Of course he isn’t tied down. He’s not a threat; not to a demon. Not to  _ this _ demon.

“Well well. Had enough beauty sleep?” Hell’s grand torturer steps out from behind Dean’s right shoulder, a smirk pulling at his lips.

Panic rises up in the hunter’s chest, cold with memories-  _ chains gnawing at his wrists “you’re so pretty when you scream” blood so thick it’s nearly black _ \- but Dean shoves it down and forces a disdainful sneer onto his face. “Oh yeah,” he snarks, glaring up at the demon, not daring to move yet. “Slept like a fuckin’ baby, no thanks to your shitty chair. You guys gettin’ budget cuts downstairs?”

He fully expects some sort of retaliation. A slap to the face, a fist in the gut. But Alastair only grins.

“Dean, Dean, Dean…” Alastair grips the back of the wooden chair. “I’ve missed you. Hell really isn’t the same without you. Your witty comments. Your  _ talents _ .”

The hunter has another smartass comment on the tip of his tongue, but Alastair beats him to it.

“It’s been so boring waiting for you to wake up,” he continues in that nasally drawl. “So nice of you to finally join us.”

“Us?” Dean asks the question without thinking. 

There isn’t time for a reply before Alastair whirls his chair around, and the sight before him has Dean on his feet immediately, his chest twisted into knots.

“Sam-!” He only manages to shout his brother’s name before Alastair blasts him back into his seat with a flick of his hand. Dean growls and tries to fight, but he’s glued in place, forced to take in the scene before him. 

The younger Winchester is gagged with just a piece of rope, tied in place. He’s strapped down to a metal table, arms and legs spread wide, wrists and ankles chained to the table’s legs. At the head of the table is a metal cart that makes Dean’s veins turn to ice. It’s just out of Sam’s line of sight, and it’s covered in equipment Dean knows all too well. And Sam- God, Sam’s just staring at him, a bruise already forming on his cheek and a look in his eye that says he’s absolutely positive Dean will get them both out of here.

And maybe he could, if he could stop shaking for one damn second.

“Alastair!” The elder Winchester does his best to sound furious and intimidating, but the smirk on the demon’s face tells him he’s failed. “Let him go.”

“Oh, Dean. I would love to.” The mock concern is nauseating, and Dean can’t do anything but watch as Alastair- his mentor, his enemy, his  _ nightmare _ \- walks around towards the head of the table, fingers grazing through Sam’s hair in a tender motion that makes the younger Winchester flinch, chains rattling against the table. The demon grins with a pleased sort of hum, and Dean wants to throw up with the way Sam looks between them with barely concealed panic. 

If this is a nightmare, he’d very much like to wake up now. Like, right fucking now.

Alastair moves to the cart beyond Sam’s line of sight, and he makes a show of picking up various instruments, picking them up so they scrape across the metal cart. And Sam looks so damn scared now that Alastair can’t see, eyes pleading with his big brother. 

It hurts, but Dean forces himself to look away, because he knows he’s going to fall apart if he keeps looking at Sam’s terrified face.

Alastair angles himself so Dean can see the way he’s contemplating, fingers dancing over the cart- something that looks like a whip, some sort of saw or something, all sorts of stuff Dean can’t see from so far away. He finally settles on a small dagger, twirling it between his fingers. “See, I would… But you’re both becoming such a pain in my ass. Between the angels and the seals and the whole ‘foiling my plans’ thing. I really should just kill you both.”

The demon moves so fast, Dean doesn’t even register it before he’s standing right above Sam, the edge of the dagger pressed against his victim’s throat. And Dean can see Sam tense up, fingers flexing and curling, breath held tight in his chest, and Alastair’s drawing blood, just a tiny little bead dribbling down Sam’s neck.

“No, don’t-!” Dean wishes he could take the words back as soon as they leave his mouth when Alastair looks up at him, a sickly, slimy smile on his cheeks. 

“Well, I’m feeling a little...  _ generous _ today.” He pulls the knife away, wipes the blood off on Sam’s t-shirt and steps back, and the younger Winchester sags with the force of his sigh of relief.

Dean’s too damn tense to think about relaxing even an inch, curling his shaking hands into fists as he glares at the demon. And naturally, he gets snarky as a defense mechanism. “Oh, well lucky me.”

“Oh yes... See, I’m willing to compromise. You know how much I love my compromises, Dean.”

Dean shudders and grinds his teeth together. In forty years, Alastair has never offered a compromise that wasn’t damning. He doesn’t trust himself to say a thing, and thankfully, the demon takes his silence as a sign to continue.

“So here’s your compromise, Dean-o.” Alastair slams the dagger back down on the metal cart, and both brothers flinch, hard. “We’ve got little brother, all strapped down here. I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity to get to know him.” 

Get to know him... Oh God, no… No, not Sammy. No way.

It must show on his face, because Alastair turns a sneer on him as he turns around. The demon picks up something in his left hand, something Dean can’t see, and heads back towards the table. “Mmm, it seems only right. After all, I know  _ you _ so well. And we’re so  _ close _ , after all those years. And Sammy here, he’s the most important thing to you; it’s about time we got acquainted, don’t you think?” Alastair has an almost gleeful look in his eyes as he focuses in on Sam, combs his right hand almost affectionately through Sam’s hair, slides his touch down over the younger’s shoulder, towards his throat, lets his fingers slip under the collar of Sam’s shirt. Sam makes a noise of protest and bucks off the table in an effort to get away.

And Dean says nothing. It’s always the less effort option first, but the worse option second. See how long it takes to get drowned versus how long it takes you to pull out your own fingernails. The one that benefits Alastair most- the one he’d prefer- then the one Dean will benefit most from- but he’ll have to pay dearly for it. And goddammit, he’s not sure what could be worse than watching his little brother on the rack, watching Alastair look over him with that nauseating hunger.

“Or,” the demon retracts his touch from Sam- Dean knows his little brother is watching him.  _ begging _ him, but he refuses to let their eyes meet- and he turns his gaze back to meet Dean’s, “you can do it.” And he offers his left hand, and he’s got a scalpel, handle out towards Dean-

_ “Oh, I had a feeling this would be your favorite.” Hot breath caresses over his shoulder, cold fingers tracing down his side, smearing the gore of the quivering, bleating soul beneath him. And Dean shivers, feeling a surge of warmth in his chest at the pride in his master’s voice. “You’re such an artist with a scalpel. Truly spectacular. One day, you might even be as good as me~…” _

Dean can feel the color drain from his face, his brain going fuzzy with panic. Lungs seized up, heart dropping through the floor, walls closing in. “No… No way, no way in Hell-!”

“Ah-ah. I’m not done yet, Dean.” Alastair is practically singing, nearly bouncing in place as he leans back over Sam- Sam, who’s gone absolutely rigid, who’s visibly shaking. The demon speaks right in his ear, even though his eyes are trained on Dean. “If you say no, you’re gonna sit right there and watch. Find out if he has the same weak spots you do; hear what he sounds like when his throat is all raw and bloody. See if he passes out before I pull out his small intestine.”

Dean knows what that looks like, knows intimately what guts feel like in his hand, nearly velvety with blood- and he’s going to be fucking sick. 

“I’m gonna carve him up real good, Dean-o; the kind you don’t come back from. And you’re gonna see what it looks like when the lights go out in his eyes.” Alastair looks giddy at the thought, and Dean goes completely frozen, brain stalling. He’s gonna kill Sam, oh God, he’ll kill him, he’s gonna kill him- “But if  _ you _ do it… Well, you know what cuts are lethal, and you know what isn’t. If you do it, I won’t make you kill him. Scout’s honor.”

There’s the other shoe, there’s the consequence, the price. Dean can’t think.

“You do it, you slice your brother up until I say stop, and you can both walk out of here more or less intact. Or,” Alastair leers at him, his nasally words a challenge, “you can sit back in that chair and watch me work your brother to death- but at least your hands will be  _ clean _ , right?”

Panic stops any sort of logical processing, prevents Dean from really weighing this out- not that he really can. It’s a non-decision, a choice he can’t make, and he’d rather kill himself a thousand times, rather go back on the rack for a thousand years than make this decision. And his mouth goes without him. “What the fuck do you get out of it,” he bites out.

“Satisfaction.” Alastair doesn’t have to think about it, a wicked smirk on his face. “And, of course, the assurance that my years of teaching haven’t gone to waste.”

Dean picks the wrong damn time to look down at his brother. They meet eyes, and Dean’s never seen his little brother look so petrified. Face completely pale, eyes so wide they might pop out of his skull. And Dean can see it in his minds’ eye- his brother’s face covered in blood, hazels glassy and empty, Alastair hovering over him-  _ A dead weight slumped over him as they kneel in the mud. A cold body laid out on a threadbare mattress...  _

He’s done this before, but this time, there’s no demon who would dare make a deal with him to bring Sam back. Not if Alastair kills him. So in the end, God forgive him, it’s not really a choice at all.

“.... I’ll do it.”

Sam shouts from behind his gag, something that sounds horrifyingly like ‘Dean, no!’ but the elder Winchester forces himself to ignore it. Forces himself to stare at Alastair’s smug grin.

“I had a feeling you would.”

The pressure pinning him to the chair releases, and Dean forces himself to his feet, does his best not to tremble or trip as he goes to his brother’s side. Alastair is still just grinning at him, holding the scalpel out as an invitation, and Dean has to make himself take it.

It’s a familiar weight in his hand. Cool, precise. Small enough to fit just about anywhere, hit all the best spots, all the little points that make a person scream. Sharp enough to do as much damage as a full-sized blade, if not more. He’s used it on a thousand souls, maybe more, made more slices and cuts and wounds than he can count.

And he’s about to use it on his little brother.

Alastair tears Sam’s shirt clean off his body, and Dean can see goosebumps crawl up his brother’s bare skin, can see his brother shaking, his abdomen clenching up with anxiety, and Dean’s never wanted so desperately to get shot in the head. Everything feels fake and distant and too close and he can’t do this. He can’t do it. He just can’t; but he has to.

“You go until I’m... sated. You keep going until I feel you’re done. You get cold feet, you stop before then…” He chuckles darkly. “Well, neither of you are gonna like that much at all.”

Alastair rips the gag out of Sam’s mouth, and steps back, sits down in the seat Dean just occupied with an eager anticipation in his eyes like he’s just sat down for his favorite show. Dean knows he’s shaking, and he has to clench his hand around the blade in his hand to make it stop. Shaking will make it worse. So much worse.

Oh God...

“Dean-”

He almost flinches at the whisper, staring down at his brother. “Sam, close your eyes.”

“Dean, you-”

“Dammit, Sammy,  _ please _ .” His voice breaks, and he almost loses his shit right then and there. “For fuck’s sake, just… just close your eyes. Please…”

Sam gives him one last terrified look, a look Dean doesn’t dare try to interpret, and slides his eyes shut. He shifts around on the table, skin prickling again with nerves, and Dean just stares down at his little brother’s body. 

Where the hell is he supposed to start?

_ How  _ the hell is he supposed to start?

His knuckles have turned completely white with how hard he’s holding the scalpel, and he has to grip so hard it hurts to keep it from shaking as he sets the blade against his brother’s skin, near the center of his chest. Sam shivers under the touch, catches his lower lip between his teeth.

The first cut doesn’t even get a sound. Nothing but a sharp hiss of air, a tightening of muscles. And if Sam would just relax, this would hurt less, Dean would be less likely to do permanent damage. Well, serious, life-threatening damage, anyways. Blood dribbles down Sam’s chest in a way that’s almost peaceful, serene, and it calms the roar of a beast inside him that he didn’t even know he had.

Dean tells himself he has to force the next cut, but honestly, it’s instinct. Another slice, just a little lower, facing a different direction. Another slow drag of the scalpel, this time over the abdomen, bottom of the ribcage towards the belly button, and he gets a wince and a little grunt of pain for his efforts as blood drools down skin, over an old scar.

A scar from a gunshot wound. A gunshot wound  _ he  _ stitched up on his little brother because this is  _ Sam _ he’s cutting open. And when he looks back up at the younger’s face, Dean can see him trying to keep his expression under control, teeth grinding together as he tries to keep from crying out.

And his eyes are still closed. Because Dean told him to. Because Sam  _ trusts _ him, more than anything- more than everything. Trusts him enough to let his brother torture him, trusts him enough to keep his eyes closed, and Dean’s stomach twists up into knots. 

Sam shifts a little bit on the table, and Dean knows he’s trying to tell him to keep going. A silent,  _ “It’s okay, Dean. I can take it.” _

It’s almost worse than if Sam were screaming and crying. 

Dean swallows hard and carefully makes another slice on his brother’s chest, watching Sam’s face screw up as his breath comes in measured pants. He’s only bleeding a little bit, not enough for any major blood loss, and they might actually make it out of this. Sam’s holding on well enough so far.

“You’re stalling, Dean.” Alastair’s voice is mildly exasperated at best, and Dean glares up at him. “You really think I’m gonna be satisfied with just some surface level cuts? I know you can do better.” 

That threat has Dean looking back down at Sam. Sam, who has his eyes open, watching Dean with an expression that’s equal parts steeled and sympathetic.

_ Just do it. I’ll be okay. We don’t have a choice; I trust you. _

Dean turns himself away, angles himself so he can’t see Sam’s face. He can’t look. For both their sakes. He’s doing this to save Sam’s life; the alternative is letting Alastair torture him to death, and selfishly, Dean thinks that would be worse for him too. Losing Sam, plus a lifetime full of nightmares. And a loss of a reason to live and fight, in complete honesty.

So he swallows hard and digs the blade of the scalpel in, just below the ribcage, and Sam’s whole body jolts, handcuffs clanging against the table, a shout of pain and shock leaving him. Dean’s going to feel guilty about this as long as he lives, but he focuses on the why: this is saving Sam’s life, even if it feels like the complete fucking opposite.

He twists the blade inside, and Sam bites his lip to keep from crying out again, but he still moans loudly. Blood spills over Dean’s hand, a beautiful waterfall of crimson, and it sates him as much as it horrifies him. The scalpel drags up, making a deep cut, blood spilling out in deep red, and Sam moans and writhes on the table, trying to curl himself away- and driving the blade deeper as a consequence.

Dean lets go of the blade so he can’t cause further damage, rolling Sam onto his back again with a firm hand on his hip. “Sam, don’t.” It’s little more than a whisper, though he’s not stupid enough to think Alastair can’t hear. “You’ll make it worse. Be still.”

It’s a difficult request, he knows all too well, but he has to try. The last thing Dean wants is to accidentally cause some sort of permanent internal damage. Nick a major artery, puncture a lung, mangle an organ…

He can feel Sam’s eyes on the back of his skull, but he refuses to turn around to look at him. Instead, Dean grabs the handle of the scalpel again and carefully pulls it out. Sam chokes off a whimper of pain, and it’s so hard to ignore him, but Dean forces himself to and carves in a little bit further up, closer to the clavicle. More blood washes down warm skin, another gasp and groan from the body under his hands.

As long as he doesn’t see his little brother’s face, as long as he doesn’t look too hard, he can do this. He can imagine this as someone else, some other soul up on his rack, one of thousands, and Dean can pretend this is just his tortured mind playing tricks on him, making this soul  _ sound _ like Sam- because even off the rack, the torment of Hell doesn’t stop, not really, not completely. He’s heard his little brother’s screams out of someone else in Hell enough times that he can tune it out if he doesn’t think too hard. 

So Dean throws himself into careful, controlled focus. Cuts into the places that will hurt, but not cause unbearable agony. Draws blood, but not too much. Slices deep, but avoids anything major. Noises of pain, gasps and cries and shouts- they all fade into background noise, smothered by his own pounding heartbeat.

Pounding from anxiety, not from excitement. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

And then it happens. Dean cuts just deep enough in just the right place, and Sam screams and sobs and cries out:

“ _ DEAN-!! _ ”

He stops, immediately, blade clattering to the floor, and the sight of blood on his fingers- his baby brother’s blood, oh God what has he  _ done _ \- makes him gag, stumble back from the table. He has horrified tears in his eyes, his hands shake too hard to even attempt to hold onto anything. But then Alastair stands up, expression furious and  _ excited _ , nearly giddy with the idea of Dean breaking his promise.

More than anything, he wants to stop. Just put down the blade and run and hide- and probably puke his guts out and cry a lot. Except Alastair is coming closer, and he’ll kill Sam, carve him open and pull him apart, and at least Dean can leave him alive, if nothing else.

“No, wait-!” Alastair gets around to his side of the table, and Dean snatches the blade back up in his hand like it might get the demon to stop.

Shockingly, he does, arms folded over his chest as he comes to a stop behind Dean, a dark grin on his face. “Well? I’m waiting, Dean.”

And it’s like his first day off the rack again, fingers shaking as he clutches at a scalpel, Alastair behind him, offering his first advice:

_ “You’re never gonna make it if you keep thinking of them as people, Dean. They’re just skin, just a canvas, all spread out for you. Just let it be art. The blood, the gore. It’s beautiful; I know you see it. Focus on that.” _

The only way he made it was by finding a place within himself where he could lock his feelings away. Lock up his thoughts, his guilt and shame and remorse. It was so hard at first, nearly impossible, but he got used to it after a few years.

And now, now it’s terrifyingly easy to find. Even standing over Sam, it’s so damn easy to just slip away, to lose himself in it. He tried so hard to fight it, for Sammy’s sake- but this is for Sam. And the satisfaction, the need, the urge, the pleasure... It all swells up, and Dean loses himself in the tide, lets himself get swept away on a high of red...

His first few days off the rack had been impossible. He couldn’t do it, and Alastair would strap him back up for a month or two until Dean had enough, was desperate enough to try again. For the first year or so, it was a constant back and forth. Dean would get down, torture a soul, sometimes a handful, but then someone would beg in just the right way, or say just the right thing, or look just enough like someone he knew- just enough like  _ Sam _ \- and he’d cave.

After long enough, he got through a whole twenty souls without breaking in the middle. Maybe throwing up after, crying and begging for forgiveness once the day was done- not that forgiveness for anything matters in Hell. 

But Alastair was always right there. Offering him tips, advice, small comforts, and Dean ate it all up. And then he reached a point where he was desperate for it. Where he needed the approval, and he’d slice through however many souls he needed to just for a compliment from his master, his teacher. 

There was always this little part of his mind that cried out that he was wrong, that he should stop, he was  _ hurting  _ people, what would Dad and Sam say, but Dean kept stomping it down and squashing it away until it didn’t come anymore. And that’s the place he puts himself now, buries his humanity so damn deep that he can’t feel it.

Suffocating his humanity was what turned Hell from a torture into a constant high. That was when Alastair really took Dean under his wing. Told him secrets about the human soul no one else knew. Showed him the perfect ways to break someone- the fastest methods, the slowest. All the perfect cuts he could make, all the places that hurt the most. And it turned from a job to pleasure. To something Dean craved and needed. 

And Alastair didn’t help that at all. No, he made it worse in the best possible way. Compliments and praise changed from verbal to physical, a physical attachment. A closeness that’s never been matched by anyone else- a closeness that would be in the Biblical sense if it weren’t Hell. An addiction so powerful that when an angel dragged him away, kicking and screaming and struggling, he had to burn the filth and darkness off of Dean’s soul.

That’s the part he doesn’t tell. The part he’s never breathed a word to anyone. Because his nightmares aren’t all just from his time on the rack- though most are. Sometimes it’s nightmares he makes himself, his shame-riddled psyche reminding him of that intimacy he misses and craves and hates himself for.

Sometimes, they aren’t even nightmares. Sometimes it’s a relief- a relief he tells himself he doesn’t need- sometimes a dream full of pleasure, Alastair all over him while he slashes through soul after writhing, screaming soul, elbow deep in blood and  _ thriving _ . He gets lost in those dreams, so vivid that he can almost feel the warmth of blood on his hands.

Dean doesn’t snap out of it until he realizes Alastair’s on him, lips hungry and searching, and Dean’s awareness comes back, screeching with disgust. The hunter immediately pulls back, half retching, and shoves his mentor, his tormentor away as fast as possible. 

But Alastair doesn’t seem pissed at all. Not even a little bit. He’s grinning, wiping bloody spit off his mouth with the back of his hand, “That’s my boy.”

“I’m  _ not _ your boy-!” he snarls at the demon, but he can taste iron on his tongue and he has no idea how it got there, doesn’t know when Alastair got this close, doesn’t know why he’s panting, why his skin is buzzing with excitement and need.

Oh, but doesn’t he know?

Alastair seems to be thinking the same thing, a look in his eyes like he knows some secret Dean isn’t privy to. A secret Dean won’t admit to himself. “See you soon, Dean.”

And then he’s gone, vanished into thin air. Dean manages to cling to composure for another two seconds, but then he looks at his hands and they’re red, bright with fresh blood, maroon with old, and he barely turns to brace himself on the wall before he’s vomiting.

There’s nothing in his stomach to lose, just acid biting up his throat as he retches hard enough to draw tears. It takes a good few minutes for him to catch his breath- and even longer to realize that he’s still clutching the scalpel in his hand, blood dripping off the blade onto the floor.

_ Sam’s  _ blood, oh God, what did he do? He doesn’t even remember, and now he’s coated in thick crimson all the way up to his elbows. 

Dean’s terrified to turn around, guts clenching with the threat of puking again, but he manages to control himself enough to look up from his shaking, blood soaked hands to the table where Sam’s chained down. He tries to prepare himself for whatever he’s about to see, but no amount of preparation is going to help.

There’s blood everywhere. Barely an inch of Sam’s now-pale skin shows through all the red, smeared all over his body, dripping sluggishly off the table, off his fingers, into little puddles on the floor. His hair is matted down with sweat, jeans torn and ripped so badly they hardly count as pants anymore. There are cuts everywhere, some shallow, some deep, some clotted shut by now, some still leaking blood with every shallow, rattling breath he takes.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck-  _ fuck _ , Sammy…”

Dean chucks the blade in his hands off to the far side of the room, listening to it clang against the concrete, and he feels like he’s seconds away from passing out, like he’s the one who’s lost all this blood. To an outsider, it might look like it though- Dean’s flannel is so saturated with blood, he could probably wring it out. 

It’s never going to come clean. 

Even if it did, he’d never wear it again.

His fingers tremble as he pulls out his lockpicks, hunching down to set his brother free. Sam’s left hand is closest, and the locks are so damn easy to open. But the cuffs are stuck into his little brother’s skin, bitten into his flesh- because this is the side Dean was standing on, the side where Dean stood over him and carved him to pieces and Sam mutilated himself in an attempt to get away.

Dean has to peel the metal out of Sam, and blood starts flowing even faster, dripping down his hand. The younger Winchester barely even makes a noise, doesn’t move much at all. The blood won’t stop, doesn’t even begin to clot, and it’s honestly surprising that Sam has anything left to bleed. He’s no medical expert, but that’s going to need stitches.

Just like everywhere else. 

Jesus Christ, what has he  _ done _ ...

Dean rips off the bottom of his soaked shirt and ties it tight around his brother’s wrist, a feeble attempt to stop even a little bit of the bleeding. It’s only when he tightens this shitty makeshift tourniquet that Sam gives a hoarse little moan of pain. As soon as he makes that noise, Dean straightens up, watches for any signs of consciousness. But Sam is still down and out- at least for now. He’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.

Dean hates to think about what’s going to happen when Sam wakes up. If he wakes up. If the blood loss isn’t too severe, if Dean didn’t do any permanent, lethal damage. Hell was bad, but this? This is a whole new level of trauma. And it’s all Dean’s fault. 

He barely remembers doing any of this. It’s like a hazy dream, blurry and confusing at best. Except there’s no denying that he caused this damage, that he’s responsible for tearing his little brother apart, for spilling his blood all over the floor and the table and everywhere.

Sam’s left ankle is next, and he actually does gag at the damage done there. It’s the same situation with the cuffs, sunken into the younger’s skin nearly down to the bone. But what’s worse is everything  _ else _ . Cuts on the soles of his feet, two toenails ripped off, countless little cuts and slices going up under his shredded jeans. 

Dean tries his best to ignore everything- because if he has a complete breakdown right here, neither of them will get out- and focuses on getting the cuff off of Sam’s foot. And then peels it slowly out of the younger’s ankle, wincing sympathetically as blood pours out of the wound to join the puddle on the table. Dean produces another half-assed tourniquet, ties it tight, and Sam gives a sharp whine of pain.

“Sammy?” He’s laser focused as Sam starts to shift, eyelashes fluttering, and his shallow wheezes start turning into pants, his chest heaving.

Sam peels his eyes open, and as soon as he sees his brother at the end of the table, he flinches away, the chains on his right side clanking loudly against the table, a cracked whimper escaping. His gaze is wide now, terrified, even though he can only really get his right eye open enough to see effectively.

Dean pulls his hands back and puts them both up where Sam can see. Can see that he’s unarmed- and covered in blood, fresh and raw and nearly dripping off his hands, and Sam just makes another broken noise of panic and keeps trying to move away.

“No.... N’more, De’, please…. Please, please, stop… Dean, no, please....” 

His words are slurring just a little bit, but Dean only really notices that as an afterthought as he’s stumbling back from the table.

“Oh God, Sammy…” His hands are shaking, nearly vibrating, and he has no idea what to do with them. He can’t touch anything, not as dirty as they are, and he’s certainly not going to touch Sam. “I-it’s okay. It’s okay, I won’t hurt you. I’m not gonna hurt you, I’m never gonna hurt you again, Sammy, I swear it. I’m so sorry- oh God, I’m  _ so sorry,  _ Sam…”

Sam makes a noise that sounds more like a wounded animal, a raw whine as he keeps trying to move, opening barely closed wounds, agitating his injuries. And it’s not like he can go anywhere with his right arm and leg still chained down anyways, but he’s still trying, and he’s going to hurt himself if he keeps going, and he’s definitely going to dislocate something at the very least if he falls off the table.

“Sammy, you- you gotta stop moving.” Dean dares to move a little closer, and Sam uselessly scrapes his free foot along the table, cuffs clanging louder.

The younger Winchester shakes his head almost drunkenly, giving a useless litany of, “No, no, no, please, stop, no,” that slurs and drones on and on. Dean doesn’t dare to come closer and Sam stares at him, terrified, for only another moment or two before his words slur together into nothing and his eyes roll back into his skull and close again. 

For a good moment or two, Dean doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He just stares, listens to the wheezing rattle of his brother’s breathing. Sam probably has some broken ribs. And maybe a collapsed lung- hopefully not, because Dean doesn’t know how to fix that, and if he takes his brother to a hospital, he’s probably going to get arrested. 

Dean finally gets himself to move, cautiously approaching the table again, like Sam might wake back up and beg him to move away, beg him to stop, make those horrible sounds that tear at Dean’s heart. But Sam doesn’t stir at all, not even when Dean unchains his right ankle from the table. Thankfully, this one isn’t stuck, doesn’t bleed like the others did. The skin underneath is just rubbed raw and completely irritated. Which is better, mostly.

He gets around to Sam’s right hand, and his hands are shaking. He hadn’t really noticed it up until now, and he’d like to say that’s why the lockpicks slipped out of his hands. They hit the floor with a quiet tinging sound, louder in the stillness of the room, and they’re covered in red. Just like Dean’s hands, his arms, his shirt, pants, shoes, probably even his hair. Dean hurries to free Sam’s hand, then stuffs the picks sloppily in his pocket in favor of frantically wiping his hands on his jeans.

But the blood isn’t coming off his hands. It almost seems to be getting worse, like he’s just rubbing it in rather than getting it off. And there’s just blood fucking everywhere, it’s all over the damn floor and on the table and he just can’t get away with it and it’s never going to get off of him. 

It feels like Hell all over again, covered in blood and his sins for all to see, except not everyone is like this. And it’s  _ Sam’s _ blood, and he did this, oh  _ God _ , it’s all his fault, this is all his fault he did this, this blood is on his hands and no one else’s. 

Dean collapses, a puddle of blood soaking into his jeans- like it really matters, like it’ll make a difference with all the blood already there. He can’t make himself look at Sam, can’t look at what he’s done because he’ll be sick again. And he dares to let himself break down, just for a moment, because no one is coming. Nobody will see him on the floor, covered in blood, and wishing he’d just stayed in Hell.

Because it would save Sam. 

Not because he’s missed this and he hates himself for it.

Right?


End file.
